Written
by Penelope-Z
Summary: *Warning Riddle/Harry slash* Tom likes snakes and fills his ink bottle with blood.


A/N and Warning: I've rated this story an R due to a Tom/Harry slash pairing, non-consensual sex, hints of bestiality, violent death and other disturbing situations, so if you are easily shocked please avoid reading it.  
  
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.  
  
  
  
Written  
  
  
  
The boy first realized he was special when he found out that humans were not supposed to have a memory of their birth. But he remembered. He could close his eyes and feel the umbilical cord twined around his leg again, the warm cave of flesh pulsating around him. He was born early one morning with long nails, a mouth full of teeth and a maze of wet curls falling on his forehead. His infant mind was swelling with ideas, he was eager, he was impatient, he couldn't wait. So he shattered his way to life, ripping through his mother's abdomen, her ribcage opening like a book, her blood becoming his baptismal bath.  
  
The boy opened his eyes, looked at the lifeless stump that had been his mother and realized he had no choice. It was all written out for him from the start. So he did what he had to do and said it was all his father's fault.  
  
At the orphanage he slept on a mattress that reeked of sour milk and learned how not to cry when two boys held him spread-eagled in the backyard while the third rubbed himself against his backbone, gasping and shivering. They shoved his face into the ground, he chewed on pebbles and mud and wasn't sure he was that special any more. But the teacher taught him how to write and he wrote his name a hundred times on every wall, his T a dagger, the loop of the R a balloon flying to the skies.  
  
One day an owl came with a letter, and then a bearded man with a pointed hat to take him to a new school. He didn't chew on stones there any more, he chewed on books and spells instead. He found ways to unlock the minds and doors of secret chambers and learned how to make love to snakes. He wore robes with a high collar to hide the love bites from the basilisk's fangs and kept his gaze glued to the floor so that they wouldn't see the green tinted venom in his eyes.  
  
But in the summer he had to give his wand back and return to the orphanage. To be shoved into the mud again and not allowed to work any magic for all those long months. So he took his heart out and put it in a diary.  
  
He let himself sleep there, buried to his chin in parchment until one day he awoke in the chamber again. His snake was a corpse now, a long thread of flesh lying in a pool of blood, red like the dead girl's hair. But there was another boy in the room now, small and frail, with eyes made of poison, like his. He wondered if Harry had killed his mother too and then blamed it all on someone else.  
  
That little boy, Harry, was lying on the floor now, next to the diary, arms and legs lolling wide like an incomplete starfish. He knew he was the one who had given Harry that pretty scar, a gaping scream plastered on his forehead. But the skin he could glimpse through Harry's torn collar was pale and clear, a blank slab to write upon. So he pushed Harry's trembling knees apart and fell between his open legs because he very much wanted to write on that body, to scribble a long story, in an alphabet consisting of scratches and bites and those purple bruises you can make if you suck someone's skin hard between your teeth.  
  
But Harry had the basilisk's fang in his hand, and he slammed it down hard on his diary, ripping through the empty pages. Then the wind came, and Tom's world slipped, fell and cracked open like an egg. He felt his life stretched out like one long sentence, from the beginning to the end. He tried to speak and felt it, the end of the sentence, the full stop, a round black dot inside his mouth. And it grew, spreading over his eyes, his face, his throat, his fingertips.  
  
Soon there was nothing left of him, but smudges of ink on clean white paper, endless combinations of only twenty six letters.  
  
The end 


End file.
